could see that he was fiercely fighting back his rage. “Stand still,” he finally said, his nostrils and mouth pinched and white.
Miranda froze obediently. She had a sudden vision of her father striking her mother, and she flinched. It made his eyes grow darker. “Please,” she whispered.
“We’re in Comanche territory,” he said, in a cold, hard voice. “Do you know what the Comanche do to pretty white women like you?”
Miranda shook her head mutely.
“They strip you naked,” he said cruelly. “All the braves who want to take their pleasure with you do—touching you, hurting you, raping you.” She was staring at him, transfixed with terror. “Then, if you’re lucky, someone, like John, pays a ransom, and you’re released.” Bragg’s expression was murderous. He smiled grimly. “Of course, if you’re not lucky, a Comanche decides to make you his second or third wife.”
His eyes bored into hers. “A Comanche woman is treated like a dog. She’s taken when her husband feels like it, beaten on whim, worked like oxen. A second or third wife doesn’t even have the protection that a first wife enjoys. She gets beaten continually by the first wife—who is cruel because she’s jealous—as well as by her husband.”
Miranda couldn’t breathe.
“Of course, if you’re really lucky, they sell you south of the border. Do you know what happens then?”
She could hear her own heart suddenly, pounding like a drum.
“You spend your time on your back—in a brothel. You become a whore.”
Miranda swayed, fighting to clear her head of the strange light-headedness that had descended. A whore…a third wife…many braves…
“Until we reach John’s ranch, you never go anywhere without my presence. Is that clear?”
His voice was coming from far away. The ground seemed to be coming up at her. Finally, a welcoming blackness enveloped her.
Chapter 10
Bragg caught her just before her head hit the ground.
“Miranda!” His anger had fled. He shook her face and slapped her gently. Dammit! He had scared the little chit into a faint! He felt overwhelmed with guilt and anger at himself—he couldn’t believe she had actually fainted. He dabbed cool water on her face, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering.
“Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, wondering why his heart was pounding so hard.
Miranda looked at him blankly, vaguely, and then fear welled up in her violet eyes, and she stared at him with frozen terror.
He wanted to stroke her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Miranda,” he said gruffly, and almost placed his hand in her thick tresses. “But you need my permission to go anywhere, is that understood?” He was brusque to hide his relief, his agitation, and another confusing, unfamiliar feeling—fear. Miranda nodded mutely.
“Can you stand?” She was still staring at him, and he remembered how she had flinched at his rage, as if he were going to hit her. Had she really thought that? Only a husband could hit a woman, for then it was his right, whether he was white or Apache. However, he knew John would never hit Miranda—it wasn’t in his nature. Absurdly, that thought pleased him. He helped her to her feet.
Nacogdoches was only a few hours away, but Bragg scouted ahead anyway, trying not to think about Miranda, that girl-woman. It was hard not to. He had had a sleepless night last night, stiff with desire for her—his blood brother’s fiancée. It was an unacceptable situation. He seemed to have no control over his lust for her, but he had promised himself that he would never touch her again, and he wouldn’t. Miranda belonged to John. In all fairness to himself, the kiss had been an accident. What virile man could have stopped himself from kissing a woman clad only in wet underclothes, especially when that woman was as beautiful as Miranda, and was suddenly, unexpectedly, in his arms?
In an effort to quell his attraction for her, he reminded himself that she
Miranda froze obediently. She had a sudden vision of her father striking her mother, and she flinched. It made his eyes grow darker. “Please,” she whispered.
“We’re in Comanche territory,” he said, in a cold, hard voice. “Do you know what the Comanche do to pretty white women like you?”
Miranda shook her head mutely.
“They strip you naked,” he said cruelly. “All the braves who want to take their pleasure with you do—touching you, hurting you, raping you.” She was staring at him, transfixed with terror. “Then, if you’re lucky, someone, like John, pays a ransom, and you’re released.” Bragg’s expression was murderous. He smiled grimly. “Of course, if you’re not lucky, a Comanche decides to make you his second or third wife.”
His eyes bored into hers. “A Comanche woman is treated like a dog. She’s taken when her husband feels like it, beaten on whim, worked like oxen. A second or third wife doesn’t even have the protection that a first wife enjoys. She gets beaten continually by the first wife—who is cruel because she’s jealous—as well as by her husband.”
Miranda couldn’t breathe.
“Of course, if you’re really lucky, they sell you south of the border. Do you know what happens then?”
She could hear her own heart suddenly, pounding like a drum.
“You spend your time on your back—in a brothel. You become a whore.”
Miranda swayed, fighting to clear her head of the strange light-headedness that had descended. A whore…a third wife…many braves…
“Until we reach John’s ranch, you never go anywhere without my presence. Is that clear?”
His voice was coming from far away. The ground seemed to be coming up at her. Finally, a welcoming blackness enveloped her.
Chapter 10
Bragg caught her just before her head hit the ground.
“Miranda!” His anger had fled. He shook her face and slapped her gently. Dammit! He had scared the little chit into a faint! He felt overwhelmed with guilt and anger at himself—he couldn’t believe she had actually fainted. He dabbed cool water on her face, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering.
“Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, wondering why his heart was pounding so hard.
Miranda looked at him blankly, vaguely, and then fear welled up in her violet eyes, and she stared at him with frozen terror.
He wanted to stroke her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Miranda,” he said gruffly, and almost placed his hand in her thick tresses. “But you need my permission to go anywhere, is that understood?” He was brusque to hide his relief, his agitation, and another confusing, unfamiliar feeling—fear. Miranda nodded mutely.
“Can you stand?” She was still staring at him, and he remembered how she had flinched at his rage, as if he were going to hit her. Had she really thought that? Only a husband could hit a woman, for then it was his right, whether he was white or Apache. However, he knew John would never hit Miranda—it wasn’t in his nature. Absurdly, that thought pleased him. He helped her to her feet.
Nacogdoches was only a few hours away, but Bragg scouted ahead anyway, trying not to think about Miranda, that girl-woman. It was hard not to. He had had a sleepless night last night, stiff with desire for her—his blood brother’s fiancée. It was an unacceptable situation. He seemed to have no control over his lust for her, but he had promised himself that he would never touch her again, and he wouldn’t. Miranda belonged to John. In all fairness to himself, the kiss had been an accident. What virile man could have stopped himself from kissing a woman clad only in wet underclothes, especially when that woman was as beautiful as Miranda, and was suddenly, unexpectedly, in his arms?
In an effort to quell his attraction for her, he reminded himself that she
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